ere face to face with one of those psychological crises
which, since the days of primitiveness, have made man's destiny and
woman's vocation. Ever afterwards a thought of that moment brought
thrilling recollections--there was the suspense, the footstep outside,
the crashing of a pistol shot through the glass. Douglas leaped to his
feet with a cry of horror. Emily had sunk back upon her seat, a red
spot upon one of her beautiful shoulders, her cheeks slowly paling into
unconsciousness. There was a smell of gunpowder in the air, a little
cloud of smoke hanging around, and he had one single photographic
glimpse of a man's face, haggard, unkempt, maniacal, pressed against the
broken pane of glass whence the shot had come. A moment afterwards,
when the place was full of servants, and one had run for a doctor, he
rushed outside, backwards and forwards like a madman, looking in the
shrubs, the arbour, behind seats, everywhere. But of the man who had
fired that shot there was no trace.

CHAPTER XXVI

A VISITOR FOR DOUGLAS JESSON

There followed for Douglas a period of much anxiety, days of fretful
restlessness, sleepless nights full of vague and shadowy dejection.
Emily de Reuss was ill, too ill to see him or any one. All callers
were denied. Daily he left flowers and messages for her--there was no
response save a repetition to him always of the doctor's peremptory
instructions. The Countess was to see no one, to receive no letters, to
be worried by no messages. Absolute quiet was necessary. Her nerves
had received a severe shock. Neither from the papers, in the
fashionable columns of which he read regretful accounts of her
indisposition, nor from the servants who answered his continual
inquiries, was there ever the slightest reference to the tragical nature
of it. It was obvious that she had recovered consciousness sufficiently
to lay her commands upon those few who must have known, and that they
had been faithful. Her illness was announced as due to a combination of
a fashionable malady and a severe nervous breakdown. Yet the memory of
that other thing was ever before him, the fierce, white face with the
blazing eyes pressed against the glass, the flash, the wreath of smoke,
the faint, exciting smell of gunpowder, and the spot of blood upon that
alabaster shoulder. It had been murder attempted at least. No
occupation could distract his thoughts from that. The horror of it
seemed ever chilling his veins. He longed to sh